by Markus Heitz
“Orcs, bögnilim, a handful of ogres, some trolls, and a contingent of älfar,” enumerated Balendilín, surveying the enemy ranks. “Nôd’onn is determined to annihilate us, just as Tungdil said.” He watched the combined force of secondlings and fourthlings take up position behind the first rampart and prepare for the attack. The magus would never send an army of such proportions without securing the human kingdoms first. There’s something not right about this. “If the ramparts fall, we’ll retreat inside the mountain,” he decided.
“Then what?”
“They’ll be lost if they follow us. We know the territory and they don’t.”
“Are you saying we might not hold the ramparts?” Bislipur asked, surprised. “With two armies of five thousand warriors apiece, we should be able to defend the stronghold for as long as it takes.”
“In these dark times nothing is certain. I’m saying we shouldn’t count on it.” He sent some of his finest warriors to buttress the troops at the entrance to the underground network. Just in case, he thought bleakly.
On ascending the parapet, he obtained his first full view of the invading hordes, a motley collection of beasts, vile products of Tion’s creation, poised to massacre the dwarves and open the High Pass to their foul kinsfolk in the Outer Lands.
The orcs and bögnilim are wearing armor stolen from Umilante’s men. Her soldiers could do nothing to halt their advance. Balendilín watched as the enemy troopers marshaled themselves into disorderly groups, ready to launch their assault and test the dwarves’ defenses. “We need two thousand soldiers behind the main gates,” he commanded firmly. “Be ready to fight!”
He waited until the snarling, grunting orcs had almost reached the rampart; then he signaled for the gates to be opened, and his warriors sallied forth.
To his satisfaction, the dwarven axes wrought havoc among the brutes who were caught off guard by the counterattack and tried to flee, only to be rounded up and driven back into battle by the trolls.
By then, the dwarves were safely behind the solid walls of Ogre’s Death. Three dozen of their number had suffered minor injuries, while several hundred beasts lay dead or dying on the dry earth before the gates. There was great rejoicing among the united armies of Beroïn and Goïmdil.
“See what a formidable force we are when we fight side by side!” Balendilín shouted down to them proudly. He glanced around to see if Bislipur had anything to say.
The fourthling was nowhere in sight.
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Weyurn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
The wagons shot through the tunnels, tearing cobwebs from the walls and ceilings and stirring up clouds of centuries-old dust. Every now and then a shadow took flight from the rattling, rumbling carriages and scampered out of the torchlight into the darkness of a side shaft. What life there was beneath the surface of Girdlegard was of a harmless, nervous variety that left the travelers well alone.
Tungdil and company were approaching the fifthling kingdom from the west. He kept count of the markers on the walls, calculating that they had traveled 250 miles by the end of the first orbit.
He shared the good news when they stopped for a while and lit a fire. “At this rate, we’ll be there in four orbits. We’re making excellent progress.”
They were in a large chamber that served as a junction between two rails. The ceiling of the cavern was supported by naturally formed pillars and carefully hewn arches engraved with runes that testified to their dwarven origins. The wood now spluttering merrily in the flames had come from a leftover stockpile of moldering timber.
“We’ll never be able to outwit the dragon,” Goïmgar said dismally. “She’ll burn us to cinders with her fire.”
“We could always shove a long-un down her throat; that should do the trick,” retorted Boïndil through a mouthful. “This is delicious, Balyndis. You firstlings certainly know a thing or two about salting and smoking meat.” He plucked dried herbs from the rind of the ham and tasted them experimentally.
Bavragor gave Tungdil a nudge. “Isn’t she lovely? I’ve never seen a more handsome — I mean, beautiful — smith.” His chestnut eye gleamed contentedly. “And look at her chain mail! She’s a master with a hammer.”
“Since when do you know anything about smiths?” teased Tungdil, although he too had been admiring the metalwork. He grinned. “You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you?”
“That was before our duel,” Bavragor chuckled. “I took a blow to the heart.”
Apparently so. The pair had bonded from the moment Balyndis had conquered the mason with her ax and they seemed to be getting closer all the time. Tungdil couldn’t begrudge the one-eyed dwarf his happiness. “I thought she whacked you on the head, not the chest.”
“Don’t talk so fast,” Rodario scolded. “I can barely keep up.” Sprawled next to the fire, the impresario had been eavesdropping on their whispered exchange and was frantically transcribing every word. “I want the script to be as authentic as possible.”
Meanwhile, Furgas had got up to examine the rail and Narmora was beside him, keeping watch. Djerůn was sitting a few paces away from the others, his weapons laid out around him. As usual, he kept completely still.
“I wish she’d thumped him a bit harder,” muttered Goïmgar in a voice so low that only Tungdil could hear. “Oh, Gandogar, if you weren’t my beloved sovereign, I’d hate you for lumbering me with such insufferable companions.” Like most nights, he was the first to pull up his blankets and settle down to sleep.
The impresario had brought his bag of costumes with him. Bavragor was amused to see that he refused to be parted with them. “Couldn’t you have left them with the firstlings?”
Rodario gave him a disapproving look. “Absolutely not! There’s no telling when I might need them, and besides, do you know how much they’re worth?”
He was interrupted by a sudden bang. It sounded like a single rap of a hammer on stone. The echo rumbled through the tunnels, then faded.
They turned to look at Furgas, who was bent over the rail. “It wasn’t me,” he said quickly. “It came from the next stretch of tunnel.”
Goïmgar sat up. “I know that noise.” He reached nervously for his shield. “The spirits of the dead masons are haunting us,” he whispered, cowering behind his steel screen. “Vraccas protect us from their ghosts!”
The sound was familiar to Tungdil too. “We heard the exact same noise just before our wagon was derailed near Mifurdania,” he said softly. I wonder if it’s a signal. But what would it be conveying? And to whom?
“Quiet, everyone.” Boïndil’s warlike instincts had been stirred. He got up and jogged to the mouth of one of the tunnels, while Narmora stood guard by the other. Sticking his head into the darkness, he listened intently. They held their breath for what seemed like an eternity.
Only Andôkai looked untroubled, rummaging casually for her pipe. She filled it and lit it with a burning splint. Balyndis smiled broadly and followed suit, picking up a smoldering ember with her gloved hand and holding it to the tobacco. The two women, who couldn’t have been more different in appearance, disappeared in clouds of smoke.
At length Boïndil returned to the fire. “Nothing,” he reported. “No noises, no smell.”
“We don’t want any more accidents,” Tungdil told them. “We’ll have to be careful.” He settled down to get some sleep.
Furgas and the half älf took their places beside him. “I think we’re not the only ones on the move down here,” Furgas confided in a whisper. “There’s not a speck of rust on the rail ahead.”
“So the tunnel is being used on a regular basis,” Tungdil conjectured.
“I thought you should know.”
“Thank you, Furgas. I’d rather you didn’t tell the others. We don’t want Goïmgar dying of fright.”
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Wi
nter, 6234th Solar Cycle
What can I do for you, Bislipur?” asked one of the two sentries politely as the fourthling approached the door to the underground network.
“Die,” he said smilingly. “Die nice and quietly.” His ax whipped up and swooped diagonally toward the sentry’s unprotected throat.
There was no time to escape the double-handed blow and the guardsman succumbed with nothing but a muffled groan.
His companion managed to reach the bugle with his left hand and the hilt of his club with the other, but already the bloodied ax was slicing through the flesh beneath his chin. The blade jerked upward, cleaving his skull.
Well, that wasn’t too hard. Bislipur wiped the blood from his face and gave a short whistle, whereupon two hundred of his most loyal soldiers appeared in the corridor.
“You know what to do,” he said tersely before reciting the runes that opened the door to the tunnels. “Show Gandogar’s enemies no mercy: They will show none to you.”
Underground Network,
Kingdom of Weyurn,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Just as they reached the three-hundred-mile marker, disaster struck. Moments earlier they had exited the tunnel and turned onto a narrow bridge. As far as they could tell, there was nothing but thin air and darkness beneath them.
The first carriage was traveling at full speed when the dwarves felt a sudden judder and the wheels were thrown from the track, tilting the wagon to the side. Sparks flew everywhere as they skidded along on two wheels, trying to right the wagon before it tipped too far. The next moment, they hit the ground and flipped over.
There was a screech of brakes as the second wagon stopped just paces from the scattered bodies.
Tungdil, Balyndis, and Boïndil were in luck: They landed on the bridge, tumbled over, rolled for a bit, and slowed to a halt. Their gloves and armor saved their skin from serious cuts and grazes.
Tungdil discovered to his embarrassment that he was lying on top of Balyndis. His cheeks reddened. She gazed up at him and seemed about to say something, but swallowed her words and just stared.
The spell was broken by the sound of Goïmgar’s frantic screams. “Sorry,” Tungdil said awkwardly, picking himself up to see what was wrong.
The little dwarf was dangling from the side of the bridge. His hands clung desperately to the stone coping, but his knapsack and his armor were exerting an inexorable downward pull. “Somebody do something!” he whimpered desperately. “I’m falling!” Tungdil broke into a sprint.
Bavragor was lying near the edge of the bridge, a few paces from the stricken artisan. He got up, muttering, groaning, and clutching his head. “I think an ogre just kicked me.” Suddenly he noticed the plight of his companion and threw himself forward to grab his arm.
It was too late.
Goïmgar’s panicked face vanished from view, his shrill scream fading rapidly.
“Vraccas forfend,” stuttered the mason. Boïndil, Tungdil, and Balyndis reached the spot a moment later, only to watch helplessly as the shrinking figure was swallowed by the darkness.
“Move!” Andôkai sped past them, bounded onto the coping, and pushed off forcefully, arms outstretched like a diver. Her scarlet cloak billowed behind her like a flag; then she too was gone.
The dwarves could hear the swoosh of her cloak but were powerless to intervene. Rodario lit his torch and dangled it into the gloom, but the light was too weak to cut through the blackness.
Long moments passed and at last they saw a faint blue glow in the murkiness below.
“Do you think she hit the bottom and died?” asked Boïndil. “It might be her soul.”
Tungdil shot a quick glance at Djerůn, who was immobile as ever. He didn’t seem overly concerned about his mistress’s safety, which gave Tungdil grounds for hope. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.
“It’s getting closer,” Balyndis shouted excitedly. “It’s flying up.”
A fierce gust blew toward them, propelling two figures out of the chasm below. The current of air carried the maga and her passenger to the bridge, set them down gently, and died away.
Andôkai’s long blond hair was tousled, and the artisan’s shimmering beard seemed to have been ransacked by mice. His face was ashen but he wasn’t in the least bit hurt.
“That was incredible, Estimable Maga!” exclaimed Rodario. “Absolutely incredible! How selfless and courageous of you. To think that you risked your own precious life to save the dwarf!” He turned to Goïmgar apologetically. “Not that your life is any less precious, of course.”
Andôkai seemed determined not to dwell on the incident. “Have you checked the wagon?” she asked Furgas. She gave her cloak a tug and set about plaiting her hair. “Can you fix it?”
The prop master walked over to the vehicle and shook his head. “The wheels have buckled. We won’t get them back on the rail.” He bent down. “Someone’s been busy,” he said. “We’re lucky that the other wagons didn’t meet the same fate.”
“The gold and tionium,” cried Boïndil, who had crawled round to the other side of the wagon to check the cargo. “They’re gone.”
Bavragor gazed gloomily into the chasm. “It’s not hard to guess where they are: on a never-ending journey to the bottom of the world.” He looked at the maga hopefully.
“No,” she said, dismissing his unspoken request. “We’ll have to think of something else.”
They fell silent. Two key components of the magic weapon had been wrenched from their grasp.
“I knew we’d never make it,” whined Goïmgar, unable to hide his glee.
“A fat lot of use you are,” Boïndil growled. “I say we throw him back down again. We’ve lost half the ingots, so we may as well get rid of the pesky artisan as well.”
“So what if we’ve lost a few ingots?” said Tungdil, determined to raise their spirits. “We’re on our way to a dwarven kingdom, remember! We’re bound to find enough gold and tionium to make a solitary ax.”
“Problem solved.” Andôkai nodded, giving her leather armor a final tug.
“Excellent. If we’ve all recovered sufficiently, we may as well get going. Divide yourselves up between the wagons,” ordered Tungdil, who was beginning to warm to being in command. “We’ll take turns pushing until we reach a downward pitch.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said the maga. She motioned to Djerůn. “Leave it to him.”
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
This time Nôd’onn’s army attacked from the sides.
Dwarven missiles sped toward the approaching siege engines, passing through the moist cladding of human skin, punching holes in the timber and shattering the joists. The sheer scale of the invasion ensured that some of the engines approached unscathed.
At length three wooden towers drew alongside the parapets. As the ramps clapped down, hordes of screeching orcs spewed forth, but the ferocious dwarves stood firm.
Balendilín proved himself an able commander, defending the stronghold so successfully that not a single assailant made it through the dwarven lines.
“Pour oil on the wood,” he shouted as soon as the first wave of invaders had been repelled. Already the next wave of beasts was streaming into the towers.
The plan worked. In no time the siege engines disappeared in a blaze of yellow flames. The wood burned like cinder, the flammable sap fueled the fire, the ropes ignited, and the towers collapsed, raining debris to the ground. The enemy retreated, yelping with fear.
Victory came at a price. Fourteen dwarves were slain by an älf who concealed himself on the ramp of the third tower and bombarded them with arrows, showing no regard for the hungry flames. At last his cloak caught alight, but the onslaught continued, ending only when his bowstring was consumed in the blaze.
In spite of the casualties, the mood was upbeat. There was no reason to believe that Og
re’s Death would fall.
“You fought bravely and well,” Balendilín praised his troops. “Our fallen brothers will live on in our memories and their names shall be etched in gold in the kingdom’s great hall.” His eyes roamed over the rows of defenders. Their bearded faces gazed back at him, sweaty but smiling; there was plenty of fight in them yet. “Vraccas gave us —”
“Orcs!” The shout came from a sentry who had turned his back to the gates and was listening to the king. “They’ve got into the stronghold!”
There were hundreds of them. The snarling, roiling brutes were demolishing anything and anyone in their path. In no time they had seized the inner rampart. They held up their swords, axes, lances, and shields triumphantly, taunting the assembled dwarven army.
The tunnels. They must have come up through the tunnels! “The High Pass must not be breached! Children of the Smith, I call on you to destroy the invaders!” cried Balendilín, rousing his soldiers from their shock. “Every beast must die!”
The dwarves jolted into action, storming up the mountain-side to fight their ancient foe. Among them was their one-armed king whose courage and tenacity were an inspiration to them all.
At that moment an ogre emerged from the underground hall, lips pressed to an enormous bugle. His piercing call drew cheers and roars from the troops outside the stronghold. The second assault on the ramparts began.
V
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
They shouldn’t have got this far. Why weren’t they stopped by the guards? Balendilín had no time to consider what had happened to the warriors who were guarding the entrance to the tunnels: He and his army were battling a seemingly endless onslaught of ogres, orcs, and bögnilim. For every beast he felled, two more appeared before him, and he could always be sure of hewing flesh.
At last Balendilín’s guards managed to turn the tide of the surprise attack and drive the invaders back to the tunnels. The battle was bloody and cost many dwarven lives, but the king’s troops finally reached the threshold of the hall where the underground network began. They could advance no farther.
